


Two can keep a secret if one of them is dead

by FadedSepia



Category: Gundam Wing
Genre: F/M, Gen, Implied/Referenced Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-08
Updated: 2017-12-08
Packaged: 2019-02-12 06:33:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,477
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12953409
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FadedSepia/pseuds/FadedSepia
Summary: Colonel Une wakes up to a hangover and a corpse in her bed.A response for the Cocktail Friday prompt for 8 December 2017.





	Two can keep a secret if one of them is dead

**Author's Note:**

> Notes: This turned out much darker than I had initially planned it to be. There is implied character death.  
> The title, as well as some inspiration for the story, are pulled from the song and music video for ‘Secret’ by The Pierces.

Her thighs were sticky, and her mouth tasted like rancid fennel.  Une groaned as her mind tripped up into consciousness as someone knocked something over down the hall, intensely regretting having agreed to go drinking with her junior officers the night before. The wool of her uniform jacket scratched against her otherwise bare chest and – no, scratch that, _her_ jacket wasn’t green, nor cut this wide in the shoulders. Even worse, now her quarters smelled like sex, stale wine, and… blood?

Now closer to properly awake, she listened for the sound of her potential companion. If she’d been sober the night before, she would have had the good grace to kick the younger officer – as it was _always_ a younger officer – out before anyone noticed he’d gone, sent on his way with little more than a brisk death threat. But, of course, she had clearly dozed off once their tryst had finished, and now she would have to ask him to leave via the courtyard window. No one was making the walk of shame from _her_ room.

She couldn’t hear breathing, but it was hard to hear anything over the pounding of her own heart and the gratingly loud tick of her analogue alarm clock, which had the gall to show her that it was barely past 0310. Tentatively, Une pressed backward across her bed, trying her best to appear as if this was natural. After a few scoots, cold feet pressed into the back of her leg. When her bed-mate didn’t respond, she carefully rolled over, squinting without her glasses.

 _‘Nine hells…!’_  Even in the semi-darkness of her room, she could tell. It was him. He was laying on his side, one well-muscled arm drawn in close to his chest. A long fall of tawny hair obscured half of his face. The _intact_ half, at least; the visible portion was little more than a bloody lump of meat. Still, she was sure. It was that young private, the one that had confronted the other gundam pilot.

_‘_ _Ⱳə’Ɣə ₥ᶐdə ƨuϹh ᶐ diƨᵷuƨϮiᵰᵷ ₥əƨƨ...’_

‘ _Shut up!’_

It shouldn’t have surprised her, but she had hoped that she wouldn’t actually have to kill him. Une liked him – had _liked_ him – more than she should have, in spite of knowing he was playing both sides. He’d been a good soldier, and one who knew how to get things done. And, for purely selfish reasons, she had wanted to secure a way out for him. She had been so much more herself when he’d been around. His presence left her feeling composed, feeling safe, like she could tell him anything. And, she couldn’t lie to herself, he was certainly easy to look at. Had been easy to look at, at least.

But, of course, there was a downside: She was losing time more frequently than ever, running herself too thin with secrets. _Ƨhə_ kept talking to her, voice growing louder, more taunting, more terrifying by the day. And sometimes, at the edge of her mind, Une knew that _Ƨhə_ was doing more than just talking whenever the Colonel stopped paying attention.

Une fought back tears.

The private had been efficient and discreet; neither of them spoke often, but they’d bonded over their early morning body dumps. He’d been there to help her quite by accident for the first – when one of her regular attachés had learned who he was – and on purpose for all the rest since, with each corpse drawing them progressively closer until– Well, until it _was_ him… His would be the third body she’d have had to move and dispose of in less than six weeks and, this time, she’d be doing it alone.

They’d spoken about it briefly the night before, she was certain. There was a problem, wasn’t there? Another problem she needed to solve? The music had been obnoxious, the drinks too strong, and he’d slipped out, she thought, well before she’d left close to midnight. But right now, between the stress that had her blacking out and losing time near daily, and the alcohol still coursing through her veins, she couldn’t even remember his _name_.

The knock at her door – had _that_ been the noise to which she’d awoken – sent her reaching for the pistol holstered at her headboard. She didn’t _want_ to add a second corpse to clean up, but one could never be too careful. She keyed in her access code, turning on the comm unit for voice only. “Yes?”

“Private Barton, Ma’am.”

Barton! That was… his, but-? Une toggled the camera, inhaling sharply as the picture of Trowa Barton – That was his name! – came into focus on the tiny screen.

_‘H-How?’_

How was he using her com? How was he right outside her door when he-? Une looked down at the jacket, struggling to read the name badge upside down. _Todd, Reynard, C-7._ A communications officer. The man outside her quarters – the man she’d sworn was in her bed – wasn’t assigned to communications. Was outside her door, and very much alive.

_‘ᴑʄ ϹᴑuƦƨə hə’ƨ ᶐɭiƔə! ϮhᶐϮ wᶐƨ Ϯhə pɭᶐᵰ, wᶐƨᵰ’ iϮ?’_

_‘What do you mean plan?’_

_‘IϮ’ƨ ƨᴑ ₥uϹh əᶐƨiəƦ Ϯᴑ ʄᶐkə ᶐ dəᶐϮh wiϮh ᶐ Ʀəᶐɭ ϹᴑƦpƨə, ᶐʄϮəƦ ᶐɭɭ…’_

And, of course, _Ƨhə_ was right. _That_ had been the plan, after all. Find a soldier with a passable likeness and plenty of leave time. See that the body was dumped in a manner that left no doubt as to it being Barton. He would forge the records, she would provide the corpse. Simple. Efficient.

But she wasn’t supposed to have killed Officer Todd until he arrived.

_‘This is your fault!’_

_‘PəƦhᶐpƨ...’_ The chuckle grated through her mind like sandpaper. ‘ _Yᴑu ƨhᴑuɭd ᴑpəᵰ Ϯhə dᴑᴑƦ.’_

Her fingers were already pressed to the comm button. “Barton, there may be a slight change of plans.”

“Of course, Colonel.”

She considered, briefly, changing in to her own uniform, but thought better of it; it wouldn’t do to leave him out in the hallway longer than necessary. Buttoned, the borrowed uniform jacket went down a bit farther than her own, and would make a decent smock since she’d have to throw it out, anyway. Une stepped to the side as her door slid open, leaving room for the younger man to enter.

Perhaps out of habit, he removed his uniform cap, but paused longer than expected as the door slid shut behind him. She couldn’t tell if the once over he gave her – uniform coat barely keeping her decent, staring squinty-eyed back at him from under a mass of tangled hair – was appreciative or judgemental. Une thought she saw the brief glimmer of a smirk.

“You’re still drunk.”

It wasn’t a question, but Une nodded anyway. “It’s 3:15. There’s a corpse in my bed.”

He stepped past her, crossing the small parlour to look in through her bedroom door. “How?”

Une couldn’t remember exactly, but _Ƨhə_ knew – ‘ _ⱲiϮh hiƨ βᴑoϮƨ’_ – so she did, as well. “I… with his boots... I didn’t want blood on mine.”

His head dipped in the barest of acknowledging nods. “Supplies are under the sink?”

“Yes.”

Barton shrugged out of his uniform jacket, setting it over the arm of one of the parlour chairs. Her eyes followed him as he disappeared into her private bathroom. He returned a moment later with a large bucket, a tarp, and a towel under his arm, the last of which he handed to her. “You should get cleaned up. Go about your routine.”

“Someone might notice you’re missing.”

“Officer Reynard Todd left for a vacation in Rotterdam last night…” There was a pleasant, venomous quality to his chuckle. “And Trowa Barton is dead.”

“Of course.” Une carefully unbuttoned the green jacket she still wore, wrapping the towel around herself as she did. She set it on the chair next to his, glad to note that she hadn’t gotten any blood on it during her brief nap. “I’ll take my shower in the main washroom, then.”

“As you like.” He was already in the bedroom, now in shirtsleeves and underwear, starting to the job of dealing with Officer Todd’s body.

Une grabbed her dopp-kit from beside her sink, tugging on a robe over her towel. She paused in the doorway, taking a final moment to really look at him, and feeling the barest smile tugging at her lips. This might be the last time; regardless of the outcome of this war, she doubted they’d see each other, again.

_‘I’ɭɭ ₥iƨƨ hi₥…’_

_‘Me, too…’_ She kept a spare uniform, along with a second pair of her signature red boots, in her locker. Once she left, there would be no coming back, at least not to him. Still, Une managed to hold her tongue until she was at the main entrance to her quarters, not speaking until the door was already sliding shut behind her. “Goodbye, ϮƦᴑⱲᶐ.”

**Author's Note:**

> I realize that Une’s inner monologue may be a bit difficult to read, but I’m using this type of writing in another fic, and found it useful visual shorthand to distinguish that there are two Unes. Below are translations of all of ᴑϮhəƦ Uᵰə’ƨ conversations.
> 
> 1: We’ve made such a disgusting mess…
> 
> 2: Of course he’s alive! That was the plan, wasn’t it?
> 
> 3: It’s so much easier to fake a death with a real corpse, after all.
> 
> 4: Perhaps… You should open the door.
> 
> 5: With his boots
> 
> 6: I'll miss him...


End file.
